What Else is a Rose for, My Child?
by Slashzilla
Summary: Christine loved her father very much. She also loved flowers and knew that her father did, too. Read on as she makes friends with a young gardener who soon grows curious as to whom the flowers are for. And read on as what he finds shocks and appalls him.


**What Else Is A Rose For, My Child?**

"Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez vous?" Young Christine Daae sang softly in her childish voice as she skipped down the path towards the gardener's house. Even as a child, her voice was very beautiful, although it did lack many of the qualities it would come to have under the Phantom's tutelage. All the same, her voice was beautiful, and many beings longed to hear it.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Gi-giardiniera!" Christine's childish mouth could barely wrap around the unfamiliar Italian words. She still tried, because she knew the gardener liked to be greeted in his native tongue. "How are your flowers today?" Christine held her hands behind her back and rocked back and forth on the balls of her feet beside the gardener. The well-mannered, somewhat young man wiped his hands on the rag tucked into his belt and stuck the trowel he had been using to tend to his garden in the gently turned dirt. "My flowers are blooming, as in every spring, child. Have you come to pick some more?" Christine clapped her hands happily. "Uhh.. Sì, monsieur! May I?" The gardener smiled kindly at her. "Of course, bambina. Leave the roots, if you please, so they may bloom again next spring."

Christine merrily went about gathering a wondrous bouquet, thanked the gardener and was all set to resume her travels down the path when she was called back. "One moment, fanciulla. Where do you go with _mio fiore_ every day? To whom do you give them? They must like them a lot if you have some for them every day." Christine smiled and replied, "They are for my père, monsieur. He enjoys them, very much so!" The gardener chuckled at her enthusiasm. "I would very much like to see the man who enjoys my flowers so. Will you take me to him?" Christine's smile dimmed, but it came back so quickly, the gardener thought himself to have imagined the child's moment of depression. "Of course. Venir, I will show you."

The duo traveled down the dirt path of the small village, past the bakery, and all of the thatch houses, past giggling children and barking dogs. All the while, Christine had started a new song. "Alouette, gentile Alouette; Alouette, Je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tete, Je te plumerai la tete, Et la tete, et la tete. Et la tete, et la tete. Alouette, gentile Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai. Alouette, gentile Alouette, Alouette, Je te plumerai." By the time Christine had finished her gentle children's song, they had arrived at their destination. "Follow me, signor. We only have a little bit more to go." The gardener gazed about him in bewilderment. _Maybe her father worked here?_ He brushed the thought aside and just continued following the little Daae.

They traveled quickly along the paths of their location. The gardener had no clue as to what to think, muchless what to ask the young Daae beside him. Christine seemed to know exactly where she was going, as if she had traveled these small, cobble-stoned paths many times. _Perhaps her father is a gardener also?_ Possible, but somehow, he doubted it. Lost in thought, the man had not noticed that Christine had stopped. Shaking loose the cobwebs in which he had entangled himself, the gardener asked, "Bambina, why have we stopped?" The little Daae just looked at him, no trace of her previous joy on her face. "Because we have reached mon père, monsieur." Seeing no sign of any other humans besides them, the gardener looked at the child, "But where is he?"

Christine was upset at having to speak some more. Whenever she came here, she never spoke, simply sat and sang whatever song came into her head. Sometimes she brought Papa's violin, but Madame Giry, or Mère Giry as she sometimes called her, didn't think that she should bring it all the time, as she was afraid it would get damaged. But Monsieur Gardener deserved an answer. "Mon père is just ahead, underneath the marble angel, monsieur." Christine paused and then added, "You can go see him, if you'd like." The gardener shot the child a puzzled look, but journeyed ahead as she had bade him.

After the few steps he had taken, which had seemed more like a day's journey to him, the gardener reached the marble angel Christine had spoken of. Looking down, the gardener had to stifle an outraged gasp. For underneath the marble angel, just as little Christine had said he would be, lay her father. Upon the slab of marble beneath the angel, the gardener read:

'_Gustav Daae–_

_1790-1830_

_Gentle father, beloved husband, adored composer._

_He will be greatly missed.'_

And beneath that lay a heap of brown, withered flowers. Flowers the gardener recognized fairly well, considering he had planted them last spring. Quickly growing incensed, though he had no earthly idea why, the gardener rushed back to where Christine stood – the same spot that the gardener himself had just been, before the marble angel. Ripping the bouquet of flowers from her hand, the gardener gathered Christine in his arms and shook her madly, having lost all sense of reason. "You insolent— How _dare_ you?! How dare you come, every day, and rip _mio fiore_ from their wonderful home that **I**, with these two hands, have tended?! How dare you undermine all of my hard work, leaving my flowers here to rot!?" Throughout his outburst, the gardener continued to shake Christine, seemingly paying no mind to the fat tears rolling down her cherub-like face. "S'il vous plait, monsieur! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for killing your plants, but my father, monsieur, he loves them very much! Take them back, monsieur giardiniera, and tend to them so that your garden may flourish."

At Christine's childish Italian, the gardener quickly came back to himself. Dropping her as if he had burned his hands upon her skin, the gardener turned to Christine, kneeling now before her father's grave, his face slack with shock and self-disgust. Blinking, the gardener hurried out of the cemetery, thinking only of the child's sweet song, that he had so enjoyed, and feeling only horror at what he had done.

**END PART ONE**

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A/N: Hiyo, all 3! This story isn't going to be updated in any resemblence to a timely manner, but I thought I'd upload the first chapter anyway. It's based on a poem by my good friend, Tenny. The poem can be found here: www. fictionpress. com / s / 2152102 / 1 /. All translations either went through an online translater, or Tenny (who's taking French in school XD). 


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